by R J Gould
‘Can I light the first one, Dad?’ Sam asked. He had a plastic bag over his slippered foot.
‘OK, as long as you’re careful. What do you want?’
‘A rocket, of course.’
David went back in the shed to get one and brought it out together with an empty wine bottle and a box of extra-long matches.
Kay stood next to Sam as he placed the rocket inside the bottle, then lit the match and held it against the twist of paper until it caught. ‘Quick. Run!’ he called out to Kay as he hobbled towards the others. In her rush to escape, Kay’s foot clipped the bottle, which fell to the ground. The resting position couldn’t have been more accurate if she’d tried. The rocket took off at a shallow angle and with a piercing whistle and sparkles of red and green light, shot straight through the open shed door before bouncing around in a vain attempt to escape the confines of the building. There was a brief pause before the rat-tat-tat of bangers. Then the whole shed was illuminated by a shower of pastel pink sparks as a fountain ignited.
All this was happening in seconds, enough time for a range of possible remedial actions to rush through David’s mind, but insufficient time to get up and do anything. Finally he edged towards the shed. Before he had taken more than a few steps there was an almighty explosion as the whole collection of rockets was set off. One came flying through a window with an almighty crash, sending a shower of glass onto the lawn. Another shot out the shed door, staying low as it headed towards the spectators. They scattered to dodge the missile.
‘Wick-ed!’ Rachel yelled.
‘This is so cool,’ Andy added.
By now in addition to a cacophony of noise and an explosion of colour, the shed itself was alight.
‘Have you got a hose, David?’ Bridget called out.
‘Yes.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In the shed, I’m afraid.’
‘What about buckets?’
‘There are a couple in the kitchen, under the sink.’
Rachel and Andy ran in to collect them, but their feeble attempts to throw water from too far a distance did little to diminish the flames, which were now coming through the roof. The last fireworks to go were jumping jacks which scuttled out the shed, bouncing along the lawn. A discussion ensued about whether to call the fire brigade, David deciding against it as the shed was well away from their own and their neighbours’ houses so couldn’t spread to other buildings. They watched transfixed as the fire waned and the light dimmed.
‘Well, that was the best firework display I’ve ever seen,’ Andy exclaimed as they made their way indoors.
‘Good, I’m glad you enjoyed it. I never much liked that shed anyway,’ David said, making light of the incident, but aware of the problem to come.
Chapter Thirteen
David and Jane were sitting at the kitchen table, looking out to the charred remains of the shed. It was Saturday.
‘What made you decide on having fireworks here? We always used to go to the park.’
‘I thought it would be nice for the children to have a quiet event at home,’ David suggested.
Jane stood and walked across to the fridge where she took out a carton of milk. She inspected the label. ‘Since when have you been drinking this?’
‘It’s called milk, you’ve seen it before.’
‘Not red top.’
‘It’s healthier. And safer to go organic, too.’
‘Have you got a heart problem?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely not, I’m fine.’ He glanced at Jane. Did she look disappointed? He didn’t like the way she came in as if she owned the place, though admittedly she did own half of the part not held by the mortgage company. On arrival, using the key without ringing the bell, she’d entered with the merest of nods to acknowledge his presence before walking into the kitchen and turning on the coffee machine.
She’d found out about the shed fire from Sam and had come to see the damage.
The day before this visit another letter from her solicitor had arrived, advising David that he needed to get an estate agent to value the house ahead of making any financial settlement. Jane was there to assess the impact of the accident ahead of the valuation. ‘It’s a complete wreck, you must have had a hell of a lot of fireworks.’
‘It is wooden, Jane.’
‘Was wooden, David. What else was in it, apart from fireworks?’
‘Just the usual stuff.’ David fought off panic.
‘If insurance doesn’t cover it you’ll have to pay since you burnt it down. That’s only fair.’
Jane tilted her head back to catch the last dregs of cappuccino. She replaced the cup on the saucer and looked across at him. There was a thin line of frothed milk above her upper lip. It made her appear less threatening, comical. She looked down at the cup. ‘We’ve got four of these, haven’t we? I think I’ll take them, they’re rather nice. You use mugs so they won’t be missed.’ She got up, opened the unit above the dishwasher, and removed the three remaining cups and saucers. She set them down on the table then opened a base unit to get a plastic bag.
‘The Times now,’ she remarked as she wrapped a cup using the travel section of the newspaper lying as yet unread on the kitchen table. She carefully placed it in the bag and began to wrap a saucer. ‘Mail not good enough for you?’
‘I quite like a newspaper to have some news in it,’ he sniped, watching with discomfort as she moved around the kitchen knowing where everything was. He resolved to rearrange things as soon as she’d left.
‘I didn’t just come over to see the burnt shed. I need to collect some warmer clothes now that the weather’s turning.’
David’s panic intensified. This was it.
She moved towards the hall. ‘Are the kids upstairs?’
‘Jane.’
‘Yes?’
‘I found it impossible to keep your clothes in our bedroom. The thought of them in the wardrobe near our – my – bed, was upsetting. So I took them out and bagged them up. I was going to let you know so you could come over to collect.’
‘Well, I’m here now so I’ll take them, but I wish you’d left it for me to pack. I could have sorted them out the way I wanted and made sure they were properly folded, which I’m sure you haven’t done. Where are they?’
‘I’m sure you can appreciate that I was pretty angry about what’s happened.’
‘I don’t want to go through all that again. Where are they?’
‘I didn’t want them in the house, I took them out. I put them in the shed.’
There’s often a moment of silence before an explosion, the calm before the storm. The streak of lightning before the clap of thunder. The release of the missile before the explosion on impact. The …
‘You absolute bastard, David!’ she shrieked. ‘You absolute fucking tosshead bastard.’
‘I didn’t burn them on purpose.’
‘You make me sick. You’re a pathetic creep, do you know that? A pathetic, moronic creep.’
Rachel was by the door. ‘Well I rather like him.’
Jane spun round. She managed to change tone. ‘Rachel, dear, it’s nice to see you. Do you know what your father’s done? He’s burned all my clothes.’
‘Oh dear, how sad,’ Rachel said with a broad grin.
‘And I can see that he’s completely corrupted you. You haven’t even tried to understand how I feel.’
‘How’s Uncle Jim, Mummy?’ she asked, emphasising the last word.
‘He’s fine, thank … you’re being sarcastic, aren’t you.’
‘Of course not, my sweet, considerate Mummy.’
Jane turned to face David. ‘Every penny of damage you’re going to pay for and more for the stress you’ve given me.’ She turned, ignoring Rachel as she stormed past her, heading towards the front door.
‘Don’t forget your cups and saucers, Jane,’ David called out. He adopted a calm and pleasant tone, one that might be used if he was suggesting it would be prudent to take an umbrella
on the off chance that it could rain. He lifted the bag and lobbed it high in the air. It landed with an almighty crash on the wooden floor by her side.
Jane exited, slamming the front door shut.
Rachel was still smiling. ‘Good for you, Dad. This calls for a song. What shall we do, Queen or Fiddler?’
‘I think I’ll go for Queen please, Rachel.’
Sam had avoided the conflict, but now downstairs he watched in wonder as the unlikely duet commenced.
That evening there was a knock on the front door soon after David had settled down with a novel and a mug of instant coffee.
‘David, we need to speak.’ It was Jim and David contemplated slamming the door in his face. ‘May I come in please, just for a short while?’
Jim strode in before David had a chance to reply. He held up a bottle of red wine. ‘It’s a Prince de Courthezon 2007, rather special.’ He made his way into the kitchen, took out two large glasses from the unit to the right of the hob, then opened the cutlery drawer to extract the bottle opener. He knows where things are, David realised. He’s done this before with Jane.
David shuddered as he thought about their opportunities; perhaps the weekend last Easter when he and the children went up to Birmingham to stay with his mother. Jim invited him to sit down as if he was the host.
Jim. Such a good friend, always concerned about others, ever willing to offer advice or to help in a crisis. David had respected his serenity and wisdom. The devious bastard. Until now he’d never focused on Jim’s looks, but as he watched him pour the wine he acknowledged the man had fine facial features that seemed to ooze wisdom. The most notable quality was his soft, blue, penetrating eyes. David felt inferior to this tall man looking down at him. He could appreciate Jane’s choice.
‘I always think a glass of wine helps break the ice at times like this,’ Jim said as he lifted his and clinked it against David’s glass which still rested on the table.
‘Done this before have you?’
‘What do you mean, David?’
‘You said “always” and ”at times like this”. I was wondering whether you’ve made a habit of stealing other men’s wives.’
‘Don’t be silly, Jane is very special. Unique. But never mind me. I want to find out how you’re feeling. I’d like to think I can help in some way.’
‘I can move on without your help.’
‘Clearly not if it involves activities like burning Jane’s clothes.’
‘That was an accident.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, David.’
Jim was an expert at fostering conversation and was able to draw out an account of the fire. David made a point of informing Jim that the incident took place during a visit by his new friend Bridget and her children, but it came across as a feeble attempt to demonstrate he was coping. When asked to explain the smashed cups and saucers, he described the incident as a light-hearted jest.
‘I don’t see it as funny. In retrospect, do you, David?’
‘I’ve said all I want to say, Jim. I think you should go.’ He lifted up the bottle. ‘You can take the rest of the wine with you.’
‘I must warn you, David. The way you’re behaving is going to make things a lot easier for Jane’s solicitor.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Think about it, David.’
This was the final straw. David stood. ‘Time to go, Jim. Maybe I’ll keep the wine after all.’ He put the bottle out of Jim’s reach on the furthest worktop from the table. For the second time that day he resolved to rearrange where things were kept in the kitchen.
Jim stood. ‘Have you understood my message, David?’
‘Absolutely. I won’t set fire to any more of Jane’s clothes and I won’t smash anything she thinks she can take without asking.’ He looked him in the eye. ‘You know where the front door is. If you don’t mind you can show yourself out.’
‘Very well.’ Jim turned and left the kitchen. Seconds later the front door shut with a little more force than was needed.
David considered this meeting with Jim a milestone. At last he was released from something. Perhaps from Jane.
Chapter Fourteen
Bridget laughed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me her clothes were in the shed?’
‘I suppose I was worried you’d think I was a complete and utter idiot.’
‘No, I don’t think that. The fire was an accident, you didn’t mean to burn them.’
‘That’s true enough but Jane intends to make me suffer for it. Within a couple of days I’d got a letter from her solicitor listing alleged loss to the tune of £5,000.’
‘For clothes! Are you going to challenge that?’
‘Yes. I’ve decided it’s time to get my own solicitor. We had our first meeting yesterday and I’ve passed everything on to him. In the end I reckoned I had to get help, it was too complicated handling the separation myself. I want the financial split resolved quickly.’
‘Ah yes, it’s one of the things on your famous list, isn’t it?’
David reddened, something he did rather often in front of her. ‘Look, Bridget. The list …’
‘Yes, David?’
‘Nothing.’ He paused before an outpouring. ‘Actually I must explain. I was just messing around when I wrote it. I had a few minutes to spare so I jotted down some daft things. I was all set to throw it away because Rachel had already seen my short term objectives and had teased me.’
‘So everything you wrote was daft, was it?’
‘Well, not …’
David was about to outpour further when he detected the impish grin. Bridget was following in Rachel’s footsteps with the teasing. He was torn between a final serious statement and self-mockery. Bridget eliminated the need for either. ‘Actually, I’m quite forgetful. Maybe I should write lists, too.’
They were chatting away in a restaurant and all was going well. Though he didn’t obsess about the ill-fated list, APMLTO4 (action plan medium/long term objective number 4) had moved a step closer.
Bridget had telephoned him soon after the fireworks debacle to check everything was OK, and once she’d ascertained that he wasn’t bothered about the shed, to thank him for such entertainment. Their conversation had naturally moved on to the cups and saucers incident.
‘Bloody hell, you didn’t.’
‘I did. I was so irritated the way she was taking things without asking.’
‘So you decided to smash them!’
‘It wasn’t planned, it just happened.’
Towards the end of their telephone conversation Bridget had suggested a meal out, insisting she would pay, having got a big bonus for her October sales. Objections would not be tolerated.
‘I was wondering where to go, but now there’s only one choice. It’ll have to be Greek,’ she had declared.
‘Why?’
‘So you can practice your crockery smashing technique.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘Actually they don’t go in for that sort of thing where I’m thinking of, but the food’s great.’
Here they were, sitting at a cosy table in the lively Bouzoukia Restaurant in Muswell Hill. There was a giant poster of the Acropolis on the uneven white brick wall to their side. Conversation was flowing easily, interspersed with much laughter, no doubt influenced by the bottle of retsina they had emptied at great speed.
They had shared a starter platter of hummus, goat’s cheese, pitta bread, olives, tzatziki, and dolmades – the very food David had intended to buy for the Guy Fawkes meal. Now they were on their main courses. David cut the last piece of lamb off his kebab. Bridget was eating vegetable moussaka.
‘Good to see you eating lamb again,’ she noted.
‘Yes, I think I’m much more at ease about what’s happened now.’
She took hold of his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘I think you are, too.’
‘Thanks, Bridget. Shall I get some more wine?’
‘Blimey, no, I’m already halfway under the
table. I’ll order some for you though, if you’d like.’
‘No. I’m fine, too.’
There was a lull in the conversation. David plucked up the courage to ask. ‘We’re always talking about me, but I’d like to know a bit about you.’
‘Sure. What?’
‘Maybe this is an odd request, but you said your husband died in an accident. I’m wondering what happened.’
‘I have no problem talking about it if that’s your choice. Let’s get some coffees, maybe ouzo too.’
She called the waiter over and placed the order.
‘I think I’ve already told you about me ending up in the art gallery that exhibited his works. Things went well for a while, but then they got difficult. Roland’s sculptures weren’t selling, he was feeling rejected, and stopped working. He was depressed, began drinking a lot and taking a fair old cocktail of drugs. He’d adopted the “no one understands me” syndrome that people involved in arts think they have the sole right to. I was trying to be supportive, but he took his frustration out on me. He became abusive. Cruel.’
She continued at a tangent, speaking about her parents with great affection. They had died a couple of years ago within two months of each other, and she missed them so much. Unfortunately they played an indirect but important role in the death of her husband. They sensed the tension between Bridget and Roland even though she hadn’t mentioned anything specific, and suggested the pair took a break to see if they could sort things out. They volunteered to pay for a holiday and look after the kids.
Bridget researched the web and found what she thought would be the ideal place to inspire Roland to rediscover his creativity and perhaps improve their relationship. They travelled by plane to Inverness, then hired a car and drove to a remote rented cottage at Fanagmore in the far north-west of Scotland. It was a beautiful place right by the sea with stunning cliff formations. There wasn’t a shop for miles around, the nearest was a general store that made a Tesco Metro seem like a hypermarket.
‘Every day we’d go for a long walk, the first couple of days setting off on foot from the cottage, then later on getting into the car and driving along tiny lanes to deserted coves and cliffs. The scenery was spectacular, as was the weather; one minute blazing sun and the next, dark storm clouds throwing down a torrent of rain.